


Revolutions

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:24:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: Things got in the way, yeah, a whole fuckload of things.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to @stitchy for her assistance.

“John, can we be _quite_ quick?”

“S’not the point.”

“It’s very nearly midnight and-”

“Since when do you care what time it is? And seriously, if you open that mouth again-”

“It’s taking an age, and I-”

“Honest to god, you impatient-”

“Impatient with reason, John!” Sherlock says, his tone low and forceful, but also with an edge of play. “Ten… _bloody_ years,” he says and clumsily toes off of his shoes as John works at the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt.

“Didn’t like the romance, then? Not good? Taking time with all this?” John begins and then bites down on his bottom lip, worrying it for a moment. “This damned shirt, why did you even- posh little, tiny buttons.”

“Your eyes linger on my chest in this shirt an average of two seconds longer than in anything else,” Sherlock mumbles, doing his best to rid himself of his socks while remaining upright and standing in front of John.

John huffs out a chuckle, makes brief eye contact; they share a delighted, naughty smile. “Yeah, well, damned buttons barely cover… all of this.” His hands move about in front of Sherlock’s nearly nude chest.

“All of it?”

“Too much torso,” John says as he finally gets the last button free. “Hah! I’ve persevered.” He looks entirely too chuffed for having undone a shirt.

“Good on you. I could have gotten that done in about five seconds and yet-”

“Not romantic,” John grumbles and takes a step into Sherlock’s personal space, chest to chest. “You know how I like to be... “ John takes a large inhale through his nose and then presses his mouth to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Romantic.”

Sherlock’s mouth ticks up and his chest and neck flush just so. “I do know.”

“If the rather fantastic dinner-”

“As far as takeaway sushi goes it wasn’t terrible, that is true.” With that, Sherlock begins on the buttons of John’s shirt.

John keeps speaking as though Sherlock hadn’t said a thing, “And the bottle of wine, that _by the way_ was ten times what I’d normally pay, wasn’t obvious enough, the romance started about, oh, let’s say nine years and ten months ago.”

“John,” Sherlock says, deprecatingly. It hurts a bit to hear, it hurts a bit to say.

“Things got in the way, yeah, a whole fuckload of things,” he mentions as he toes off his own shoes, stumbling and using Sherlock’s right shoulder for leverage. “But, interruptions and… displacement and… _replacement_ I guess, well, nearly ten years. Of romance. Bringing you mince pies and… and doing the laundry. Letting you lullaby Rosie to sleep.”

“ _Letting_ me? She would barely stop wailing-”

“And yeah, I just wanted to hear it, too, that violin,” John says quietly. “Late night junk food and picking you up all the papers and, and, keeping the refrigerator stocked with only the things that you’d eat. And the tea! How many types of tea-” John begins and then cuts himself off. “Anyway, yeah, romance.”

“But isn’t that what friends do?” Sherlock asks, freeing John’s wrists from buttons and fabric.

“Tcha,” a disbelieving laugh. “That was a bit of a cock up on my part, making you think… making you believe that and not telling you how I really, you know, felt. Big cock up. Huge… cock up.”

“You just wanted to say ‘huge’ and ‘cock’ in the same sentence,” Sherlock laughs and stills, takes John’s face in his hands.

“Yeah, alright,” John admits and accepts Sherlock’s mouth when it bumps his.

This isn’t the first time they’ve kissed and it’s not the fiftieth; this won’t even be the first time that John has peeled Sherlock out of his trousers and put his mouth on his prick. But this is the first time–carefully choreographed around landladies being absent and Rosie being away–they’ll make love, and in a proper bed.

“Proper bed, now,” John points out, as though the tail end of a wonderful thought, a little bubble of giddiness floating the last of the sentence to Sherlock’s ears.

Sherlock laughs, deep and true. “Didn’t like the sofa?”

“Leather on my bare arse? Ah, no,” and John steps back, gives Sherlock a little shove and Sherlock goes willingly down on the bed, backside bouncing as he lands.

Sherlock oofs, and pushes the fringe out of his eyes. “Bit too much squeaking, yeah.”

“Thought you might have a-” John struggles to straddle Sherlock, using Sherlock’s shoulders once more to steady himself, and when he has, he gently lowers his backside to Sherlock’s thighs. “Leather fetish.”

Sherlock leans in and runs his nose up the left side of John’s neck, curling his palms around John’s hips and ending with a dot of a kiss to the curve of his jaw. “Lots of time to figure that out, John.”

“Oh,” John says with a grin and captures Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss that turns filthy almost instantly. “I’m the lucky boy,” he gasps and pushes Sherlock flat on the bed.

Sherlock’s hands, warm and smooth, press against the line of where John’s trousers meet his waist. “Shirt off, please,” Sherlock whispers and the right side of John’s mouth sneaks up, goofy and delighted, and he rids himself of the shirt, flinging it off towards the end of the bed. “Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs, oddly formal.

“Any time,” John jests, wriggles his hips a bit.

“Any?” Sherlock asks, and it sounds more like an actual question, hopeful and terrifically sad.

“‘Course,” John says seriously, holding Sherlock’s jaw in his palm. “Of course.” Their gazes hold and something quite tangible, thick and warm blankets over them. They’re the only two people in the galaxy, they really are. John smiles, Sherlock smiles back, larger.

“Because now would be good,” and Sherlock’s back to poking fun, jostling them about until they’re side by side on the bed, shirtless, shoeless, nervous and giggly and eager.

“Such an arsehole,” says John, although he’s already working on Sherlock’s trousers, taking only a small modicum of care as speed is the real issue. Sherlock lifts and shimmies and John manages to get Sherlock nude with relatively little fumbling. “Oh well that’s… just look at that.”

And Sherlock is still and silent in the half-light; the small fixture above the sink in the loo is on, casting a sliver of yellow through the doorway and John just looks his fill. Sherlock swallows and John watches the movement of his Adam’s apple, can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“John.”

He shakes his head, leans in, close to Sherlock’s face, and meets his eyes. “Could just… stare at this all day.”

“Once more with the romance,” Sherlock intones the last word with what John is sure he means to be disgust, but sounds much more like bashfulness.

“Yep.” And they kiss, John slotting his knee between Sherlock’s legs. Seconds, minutes, of hot breath and lips catching, small, vulnerable sounds that float up and out and around. It’s unlike anything 221B has ever heard. John’s hands stray to the jut of a hip, an interested cock, the dip of a navel. There’s too much skin for both of them to handle and their hands become shaky and greedy, sweaty as they reach and grasp.

“Give me,” John gasps wetly against Sherlock’s cheek. “A mo’.”

“Yeah, good,” Sherlock agrees and gets his breath back, tucking himself into John’s side and dragging the tips of his fingers up and down John’s heaving chest. They cool, briefly, skin tingling as the sweat evaporates. In time, their hearts slow.

It wriggles out in the silence of the room, something that doesn’t need to be vocalized but is. “I washed,” Sherlock says, his face hidden in the still-damp hollow of John’s neck.

John’s laughter jostles Sherlock’s body; their skin peels away from one another, a little sting. “‘Right, didn’t have to, but-”

“Well,” Sherlock mumbles, sneaking a little lick to John’s skin. “I wanted to be… prepared.”

A growl of a laugh in John’s throat and he ducks in, secures his teeth carefully around a nipple, teases.

“You’re bollocks at dirty talk,” John says in return and peels Sherlock’s face away, brings their mouths together once more. John licks in with a hunger that suffuses the room and Sherlock responds, body rising and pressing fully against John’s. “You make up for it in other ways, though. Turn over.”

Sherlock’s eyes glass over, just a bit. He’s caught off guard. “Really?”

“What? Yes, yes really,” his voice is filled with humor as he bats at Sherlock’s hip. “You did clean after all.”

“Oh shut up.”

“I’d say make me, but that’d be-” Sherlock cuts him off with a quick kiss. “Ah, you’re a quick study,” John taunts when he pulls away but Sherlock just serves him with a dazzling grin and makes a show of baring his backside to John’s attentions. “There we are.”

There’s a beat of silence before John reaches out and places his hands on either side of Sherlock’s backside, pries him apart, open. John’s tongue passes over his lips, wanting and nervous. “If you don’t like it, or want, uh-”

“I cannot actually fathom that there will be anything that I dislike,” Sherlock say, twisting his head around to look at John, his chins multiplying as he does so.

“Right,” John says, and wriggles down, his jeans catching on the duvet. “Right,” he murmurs directly into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. He takes his time, thumbs dipping in, pressing against, working Sherlock patiently until he bends in and applies his mouth. His tongue.

John goes to his stomach and presses his face in, fully, Sherlock arse pressing against his cheeks as John laps and presses, teases at his rim until Sherlock is wriggling against the pillow beneath him. There’s a smile then, right against Sherlock’s body, and maybe Sherlock feels it, because he lets out a tortured groan and thrusts his hips backward, knocking John off course.

“Careful,” John warns.

“Perhaps if you weren’t so adept at that,” Sherlock breathes.

“Complaint?”

Sherlock shimmies his arse further back. “Hardly.”

After a laugh, John is back to it, holding Sherlock open, teasing him with light pressure. Tongue and then lips, tongue again and then a good suck. He somehow manages to keep Sherlock on edge, varying his pressure and his strokes. When he adds a gentle finger, Sherlock releases a moan so tortured that it sounds like pain.

John whispers, “Okay?”

“God, yes, slow,” he begs. The words sound like they’re being dragged through honey.

So John goes slow, warms the lubricant between his hands before applying it. He moves his fingers, his tongue and his lips, all slowly. John maneuvers Sherlock right to the peak, to the very edge, before easing off. Two warm fingers, pressing inside, where it’s even warmer and tight, tight, tight and John takes his time in turning Sherlock’s body pliant.

Time has shifted when John pulls back; the curve of Sherlock’s back is tacky with sweat and he feels like a bow, ready to fire. “How-”

“Oh, oh my god, please, just-”

“Right, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” John’s voice is hurried, like this is the first time, like he’s sixteen again. “Condom.”

Sherlock huffs and flings himself over onto his back, left arm thrown carelessly above his head. “We’ve talked about this-”

“Sherlock,” John says as he rummages through Sherlock’s disastrous bedside table drawer. “The mess…”

Reaching out, Sherlock snags John’s elbow and tugs, sending him off balance, and back onto the bed. He manages to get John’s biceps in his hands and pulls until John is over him, face to face. “I want to feel it,” he says, quieter than is necessary. “I want to feel you. First time…”

“Fuck.” John’s eyes slam closed and then immediately pop back open. For a brief second he stares at Sherlock in wonder and then he’s kissing him, tongue slipping past his lips, licking. “Yeah,” he puffs into Sherlock’s mouth. “Yeah.”

“So eloquent when aroused,” Sherlock jokes and John swats at his thigh as he pulls back.

Sherlock’s eyes are on John as he very carefully pours out an adequate amount of lubricant and slicks himself up; John gives a few torturous tugs, just for the show of it and then walks on his knees between the vee of Sherlock’s legs. Just the head of his prick, dragging against Sherlock’s hole, just the head of it, back and forth, back and forth.

A light pressure, exquisite for both, before John backs off. “Hey, just in case it wasn’t clear, this is it for me, I’m gone on you.”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open, wide and sparkling. “Now, you’re telling me this,” Sherlock reaches out and tries to grab at John’s hips, pull him closer, but John resists. He smooths his hands over Sherlock’s stomach, his nipples, his shoulders and then takes another moment to look his fill. A small, soft smile appears, the most tender thing John has ever given to Sherlock.

“ _Romance_ , Sherlock,” John says and then presses in, centimeter by centimeter, eyes glued to Sherlock’s face, watching, caring.

He sounds shocked, utterly unmoored when he gasps, “John! God!”

Tongue at the side of his mouth, peeking out, as John seats himself, fully, sheathed entirely. “God,” John mirrors and still, gasping. “Slow, yeah?”

“Please!” Sherlock nods, furiously.

Hips move, unhurriedly; they have all the time in the world. John tipping over Sherlock’s torso, his lips smearing against Sherlock’s chin. “God, you, you…”

“Me,” Sherlock wheezes, tries for a laugh.

“ _You_ ,” John repeats and picks up the pace, infinitesimally. He shudders, tugs his knees in tighter as Sherlock’s legs squeeze at his sides. It’s difficult like this, but they can see one another, right down to the marrow of the others’ bones. They can see.

John’s thumb finds a nipple just as the pad of Sherlock’s swipes against the head of his own prick and that throws John off, he stutters and stills. “Jesus, s’not gonna take long, then,” he says as though to himself, in wonder.

“Good,” Sherlock grinds, finding a slightly awkward, but firmer grip on his cock. His voice is rough-hewn and unbalanced, “Neither am I.” John grins, bats Sherlock’s hand away and manages to find the bottle, dribbling a bit over Sherlock’s length before securing the top of the bottle and throwing it across the room.

“Better,” he says, eyes closing as he falls back into the heat.

John manages to find a rhythm again, two strokes, three, and then Sherlock is tugging and saying “Yes,” and “More,” and “Oh Jesus, please, this is-” There are grunts, low, primal sounds that punch from John’s chest as he slams his hips, there are growls and groans from deep within Sherlock’s gut. Hands, everywhere, across a sweaty brow, trailing precome, fingers twisting and tugging at hair.

John’s head tips back, throat bared and he groans, closed-lipped. “Sher-”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock’s arms come out and pull, winding behind John’s neck to bring their mouths together. Only when he has John’s lips against his does he wind his right hand between their bodies, managing a stroke every time John levers himself out.

A bright coil, something real and tangible, snaps and John says nothing, manages the tiniest, choked noise, and he comes, wringing himself out. There are three stuttered thrusts before John stops entirely, head drooping into the hollow between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, briefly. When he pulls back, it’s with an exhausted, “Oh, fuck,” and then he’s grasping Sherlock’s prick in his right hand and tugging.

“Oh, John, oh _christ_ ,” Sherlock chants, eyes clear and open and present. They’re both wrecked, debauched beyond recognition.

When Sherlock comes, he very nearly sits up, abs contracting as his mouth pulls into a grimace, against John’s, sloppy kissing turning to simply smears of contact. With every pulse of his cock he moans, like he’s been punched, like he’s being bled dry, and all into John’s mouth. It takes long seconds for the spasms to stop, for Sherlock’s muscles to unclench, relax.

Back against the pillow, with John’s mouth peppering kisses on his neck and chin, he let’s out a gust of a sigh. “Christ.”

“Hmph,” John agrees, pulling away, out, a mess all over the duvet. Bare bodies against the rumpled sheets, heaving chests. Sherlock flails an arm out and the back of his hand lands squarely in the center of John’s chest with a thwack.

There is silence, save for their erratic breathing. John turns to the nightstand and scoops up the empty glass there, retreats to the loo to fill it. He returns and gives Sherlock the first pull, he himself finishing off the dregs. Instead of returning to his side of the bed, he settles next to Sherlock’s left hip, places a palm down against his sternum and gives Sherlock a questioningly-hopeful look.

“Worth the wait?”

Sherlock looks at him, his eyes steady. He is quiet for long moments and then, “No. And yes.”

John raises a brow; a bead of sweat is dislodged and rolls down the side of his face.

“I wish we hadn’t John. Waited. But then. What would we have been- if that first evening, if at Angelo’s, I’d… taken you up on it. What would we have been?”

“Hard to tell,” John says, quiet, his thumb swiping back and forth on Sherlock’s skin, comforting.

“A fling? A… one off? Would you have stayed? Those years? Would I have? I’m glad, for what we are. I’m… a bit lost and sad about… missing this. All of that time. I…”

“Hey, it’s alright. It’s, yeah, I feel… yeah.” John twists, rests down on his side, abreast of Sherlock. “Glad we finally. Yeah.”

Sherlock blinks, his eyes picking up stray light in the room and refracting it. Stagnant sound, a calm before the storm. “I love you,” and it’s foreign, warbled and almost swallowed up by his throat. Because it doesn’t mean I love you it means _I’m in love with you_ and _let’s burn together_ and _finally_ and _rest_.

John nods, and then again and then he’s squeezing Sherlock’s face between his hands, dropping sloppy kisses. “Yeah. Yes. Yes, okay Christ, love you, I… am in fucking love with you.” It all comes out too fast, a whirlwind, breath skittering and hopping over the words so they sound like another language; they topple them both. It pulls at them, diffuses, makes their bodies seem somehow too small a vessel for what they’re trying to contain.

“We can stop all this, then?” Sherlock asks, breathless, pathetically pleading. “You can sleep in my bed. You can tell Rosie, properly that I’m-”

“You want that,” John says, rather than asks. “Truly.”

Sherlock’s face, a mask of sincere conviction, “Nothing would… honor, John. It would be my absolute honor and joy.”

It’s there, John’s jagged tears against Sherlock’s smoothed and softened edges, ten years from _Afghanistan or Iraq_ that the universe rights itself, and it all balances out. They breathe, side by side, elated, free, finally devoid of the tethers of their collective past.

“Alright,” comes gently, and then, “But back to what I was asking about before, the sex was good, right?” John ribs and Sherlock laughs, guffaws, gathers John up and holds on, and the demons that they might have once held at bay are all but forgotten. There is perfection, right in this moment.


End file.
